By Derek Mwale There are a thousand roads to Zambia. Some are made of asphalt. Some are made of red dust. Some run beside rivers. Some disappear into forests. Some pass through cities that never seem to sleep, while others cut through villages where the loudest sound at night is the wind moving through the trees. Some roads are physical. Others exist entirely
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By Derek Mwale Tourism has always sold a dream. A beach with perfect blue water. A safari where elephants walk through golden grass. A mountain covered in snow. A rainforest full of strange birds. A historic city where every street seems to tell a story. A quiet village where the biggest event of the day is watching the sunset. For centuries, humans have
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By Derek Mwale There is a version of Zambia that exists in tourism brochures. It is beautiful. Victoria Falls. Safari sunsets. The Zambezi River. Wild animals walking through landscapes that look like someone opened Photoshop and forgot to close it. A smiling child. A traditional dancer. A woman selling handmade crafts. A man standing next to a Toyota Hilux somewhere in the bush. And underneath it
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By Derek Mwale There is a version of Zambia that the world knows. Copper. Victoria Falls. Maize. Peaceful elections. Lusaka. A small country somewhere in Southern Africa, occasionally mentioned when copper prices move, when elections happen, or when a tourist posts a photograph of a waterfall that looks too beautiful to be real. That Zambia exists. But it is not the Zambia I see. The
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